The Rarest Faith IV: The Surest Wisdom
by Marguerite1
Summary: Fourth in the Post-Administration series, covering the year 2009.
1. Chapter One

Title: The Rarest Faith IV: The Surest Wisdom  
Classification: Post-administration, political, CJ/T, S/OFC, J/...well, you'll  
start to get it during this section.   
Summary: 2009 "It is courage the world needs, not infallibility...courage is  
always the surest wisdom." --Sir Wilfred Grenfell  
  
***   
Washington, D.C. February   
***  
  
Picking a running mate for Sam was impossible, Donna decided. Too many  
variables, too many people to try and please. Too early, even with both the  
Republicans and Democrats agreeing that this election needed candidates almost  
two years in advance.  
  
Too much of Josh "borrowing" her when she had work of her own to do.  
  
But today Matt had sent her to Josh's office and they were sitting on opposite  
sides of his desk, poring over stacks and stacks of files. More paper than she'd  
thought was possible to accumulate, and that included the Presidential papers  
that had nearly driven her insane during the M.S. scandal.  
  
"He should be doing this himself," Donna declared as she tossed someone's career  
into a black box labeled, in her largest Magic Marker, "No Way In Hell."  
  
"Candidates never do this themselves. It's always done by a committee."  
  
"We're the committee?"  
  
"Yeah." Josh leaned back and scrubbed his face with his hands. "Scary, isn't  
it?"  
  
Donna knotted her hair into a bun at the back of her head and secured it with a  
pencil and a chopstick she was reasonably sure they hadn't used. "About as scary  
as you and Toby convincing him to run."  
  
"That wasn't so much convincing him as catching him off guard." Josh smiled,  
chuckling softly. "He called back after we called him. Know what his first words  
were?" Donna, who had heard the story before, nodded, but Josh seemed to be  
ignoring her, lost in the memory. "He said, 'Uh, hi...what was it, exactly, that  
I agreed to, just now?'"  
  
"And this is Presidential material?"  
  
Josh blinked at her. "You don't think he is?"  
  
"Yes, I think he is!" And she did, in her heart of hearts. She couldn't imagine  
anyone she'd rather have as the leader of the free world. "I'm just saying, he's  
still not really focused."  
  
"He's a U.S. Senator with a pretty damn full plate. The election's not until  
next year. He'll focus when he needs to." Josh stretched and put a couple of  
folders on top of the desk. "This is my short list. What do you have?"  
  
"These." Donna added her folders to Josh's. A pretty tall stack, in spite of  
three solid days of culling. "Now, what?"  
  
"I need stats on their voting records - health care initiatives, welfare reform,  
civil rights. And if you can get confirmation that they weren't ever on the  
'Christian Nation Bill' committee, that'd be good, too."  
  
"Put Billy on that."  
  
"He went back to law school."  
  
"Then have Adele look it up for you."  
  
"She quit," Josh sighed, running his hands through his hair.  
  
"Then I'll have someone from my office deal with it," Donna replied, not looking  
up from her notebook. When Josh didn't respond, Donna lifted her head and saw  
the bewilderment on his face. "What?"  
  
"I...I don't know. I keep forgetting."  
  
"It's been over two years since I worked for you, Josh," she said, her tone calm  
and even. "I'm considered a rising star, or whatever its equivalent might be, in  
backstage politics. I don't even type my own memos or do research anymore - Matt  
pays people to do these things for me so I can take meetings and organize  
staff."  
  
"So you're telling me that you're no longer at my beck and call?" Josh tilted  
his head to one side.  
  
"I was never at your beck and call," Donna said firmly, then she sighed. "Well,  
maybe a little. But that's over."  
  
"For a number of reasons."  
  
She had to remind herself to breathe slowly. "Yes. A number of reasons."  
  
"Like...Amy?"  
  
Damn him to hell a dozen times over.  
  
"Like I grew up, Josh! Like I'm not the depressed college dropout who drove to  
New Hampshire on a whim with fifteen dollars and a pack of Life Savers in her  
purse. Like I've survived two Presidential campaigns, the M.S. investigation,  
Congressional investigation of my life, and Rosslyn."  
  
"You weren't at Rosslyn."  
  
God almighty, was he still pissed about that? And were those tears she saw just  
before he put his face in his hands? She let the words hang in the air while she  
considered her response.  
  
"I was there when it mattered." Night after night at Georgetown. Josh's  
apartment three or four times a day. Christmas Eve, which she spent in the  
Georgetown trauma center. Christmas Day, waking up with a sore back from  
sleeping in a chair next to his bed. Christmas night, fending off the angry  
phone call from her parents for not showing up.  
  
Josh's eyes were a rich brown. The color of chocolate. So sweet. So bitter.  
"Yes, you were," he whispered. "Always there."  
  
"Don't you forget that," she said in a mock-warning tone. Its effect was  
lessened by the thickness in her voice.  
  
"I won't." He looked down, then back at her, and the chocolate color of his eyes  
had flecks of cognac that nearly took her breath away. "Donna, I--"  
  
"I have to go." She gathered her folders, spilling papers that she didn't bother  
to pick up, and held the stack to her chest like a shield.  
  
Against him. Against ever, ever putting herself in a place where he could hurt  
her like that again. She slowed her footsteps and forced a smile at Matt as he  
passed her. She didn't know whether to wish that Josh had followed her.  
  
He hadn't. The hallway was still and quiet.  
  
Which was more than she could say for her mind.  
  
***  
  
The hallway was still and quiet because Matt had intercepted Josh as he tried to  
take off in a dead run. Matt had seen Donna's pained smile, and the panic in  
Josh's expression, and he blocked the door, standing with his hands on his hips  
and a scowl on his face.  
  
"I know," Matt began, "that this is probably pretty awkward. That you're still  
stuck in some time warp where Donna's your assistant, and you have this weird  
Perry Mason and Della Street thing going on."  
  
Josh scowled. "That's kinda...weird, Matt. I mean, in the books, you could tell  
if they were going to have sex based on whether they ordered onions on their  
hamburgers. Donna just made sure mine were thoroughly burned. We never...with  
the onions. Where we'd need to worry about them. That's a big difference."  
  
"Whatever." Matt stared Josh down until the defiance was gone from Josh's eyes.  
"I've known you a long time, Josh, and I think you're the most skillful  
political operative in town. But, as a human being, you've still got a long way  
to go, my friend."  
  
"What the hell does that mean?" Josh demanded, his fists balled up on his hips.  
  
"It means that you've already screwed Donna's life up once. I'm not going to  
stand idly by while you do it again."  
  
"You're not gonna stand idly by," Josh murmured. "You're gonna watch." He  
started to walk back into the conference room, then he shook himself all over  
like a dog getting out of a pond. "I mean, I'm not going to screw up, and you're  
not going to watch me...not screw up..."  
  
"I know what you mean. And I think you honestly believe it. But I'm just saying  
this: hurt her again, and you'll answer to me. And the Bartlets, Sam, Nina, and  
C.J. Oh, and Toby."  
  
Josh raised an eyebrow. "Now, you're scaring me."  
  
"Good boy." Matt gave him a shove back into the conference room. "Get back to  
work. I'll have some people from the office come in and help you."  
  
"Thanks." Josh sat down again, sniffing to determine if any of Donna's cologne  
still hung in the air. It didn't. He rolled his sleeves up and put his elbows on  
the table, leaning his forehead on the heels of his hands.  
  
How had he, Joshua Jacob Lyman, graduate of Harvard and Yale, Fulbright scholar,  
former Deputy Chief of Staff to President Josiah Bartlet, ended up sitting alone  
in a paper-strewn conference room? How, when everybody else's lives were going  
places, was his remaining a living hell?  
  
Matt was serving as the Chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee, an  
irony not lost on any of the former Bartlet staffers. Toby's second book had  
been a smash, and his work with the President's memoirs was said to be  
absolutely stunning. Donna had started an after-school mentoring program for  
teenaged girls with an interest in politics, offering them career paths vastly  
different from the one she'd taken. C.J. had won so many awards that she was  
threatening to get a bigger place so she could store them all. Sam was a husband  
and a father, and would - even if it killed Josh - be President someday soon.  
  
Josh took stock of his existence. He lived alone in the apartment he'd shared  
with his ex-wife, who had left him for a woman. He'd never bothered to replace  
the bed, so he slept on the sofa, fully dressed except for shoes and tie, with  
the television on all night. He'd broken most of his coffee cups and didn't  
drink anything that hadn't come in a styrofoam cup or a bottle. When he got  
sick, he swallowed pills with water he drank from the faucet like a dog. His  
hair was coming out in handfuls, and what wasn't coming out was showing signs of  
a really unflattering gray, and his weight had dropped so low that Abbey kept  
threatening him with intravenous feedings.  
  
He needed glasses. And, by a weird quirk of fate, he was going from 20/20 vision  
to bifocals in one fell swoop. He'd always been an overachiever.  
  
"I'm a real prize," he moaned.  
  
Donna, on the other hand - and Josh couldn't believe she had turned 35 - was  
widely considered one of the loveliest women in D.C. She was photographed as  
often as any Congresswoman, and she was Gary Tennenberg's favorite model at  
every charity event he "dressed." There was an elegant, regal quality about  
Donna now, although she retained the same sharp wit and lively charm that had  
won Josh over in his dingy Manchester "office" eleven years before.  
  
Her love life was a matter of conjecture only, for she appeared at public  
functions alone or with friends, and dated very, very privately. She'd been  
spending a lot of time with Josh's old friend Mike Casper, now a Deputy  
Assistant Director of the FBI, for a while, but that hadn't lasted. Of course,  
the relationship wasn't helped by the fact that Josh had tried to get Mike  
transferred to Arkadelphia, Arkansas - and that put another wedge between Josh  
and Donna that had lasted for months. At least Donna couldn't blame Josh about  
Cliff Calley, who had finally given up and married a nice Republican girl.  
  
And why the hell was Josh pondering this, on a day when he had serious,  
important work to do?  
  
Because his life sucked. So hard.  
  
He welcomed the news brought by his latest - temporary - assistant, who said  
that Nina Seaborn was outside and wanted to see him.  
  
"Great!" Usually, he enjoyed her visits. Her sunny outlook was a welcome change  
from the continual Congressional gloom. Today, however, before he could even get  
out of his chair, he found himself face-to-face with Nina at her angriest.  
"What's the matter?" he asked, genuinely confused by Nina's flashing eyes and  
clenched hands.  
  
She pulled the jacket of her suit tighter and stalked over to the table. "Two  
guys from the Treasury Department, you said."  
  
It took Josh a moment to understand what she was talking about. "Yes. Even  
though it's very early in the process, Sam's entitled to protection. He wouldn't  
take it unless we got someone for you. Are you unhappy with the people on your  
detail?"  
  
"The Treasury Department? I thought they were here to make sure my viola didn't  
get nabbed by an autograph seeker!"  
  
Josh's mind reeled. Was it possible that she...? "Do you mean to tell me," he  
began, choking back incredulous laughter, "that you don't know that the Secret  
Service is part of the Treasury Department?"  
  
"Well, I do now!" She put her hands on the table, leaning over as if catching  
her breath. "Wow. I'm...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. I'm just so  
frustrated."  
  
"And you thought you'd take that frustration out on me?" Josh peered at her with  
a goofy smile on his face until she smiled back, opening her arms so he could  
hug her.  
  
"You're stiff as a board!" Nina exclaimed as she ran her hands over Josh's back.  
"Can I take this to mean that I'm not the first person to unload on you today?"  
  
"Noooo, not by a long shot." He ushered her to a chair and pulled up another one  
close to her. "But you're the best musician I've seen all day."  
  
She really was. Sam had been in Oregon the night Nina was called on to replace  
the viola soloist in Strauss' "Don Quixote," so Josh had gone in his place - and  
been blown away by the warmth of Nina's sound, the utter confidence she  
displayed as she played a delightfully robust Sancho Panza to the 'cellist's  
sorrowful, mad knight. The reviews had been astounding, rating Jacqueline  
Fisher-Lennox as a musician to be taken seriously in her own right rather than  
the "appendage" known as Nina Seaborn, although a few papers made snide comments  
about how politics were creeping into the arts.  
  
Nina rewarded today's compliment with a full-blown smile. "Well, it looks as if  
I've wasted a trip down here, and you've wasted ten minutes on me having a nutty  
because there are two people with guns following me around all the time."  
  
"I know it's weird, and that there's no way these guys can be completely  
unobtrusive. But after a while they kind of fade into the background, and you  
won't be so aware of them all the time." Josh looked out the window as he  
continued, relishing the warmth of the sun on his face.. "They're there to make  
sure that nothing happens to you or Helen. They're there to make sure that Sam  
can keep his eye on the ball. He has an important job to do, and the one he's  
running for is a thousand times more important. For him to be able to function,  
he has to know that the people he loves are safe."  
  
"But I thought that was usually reserved for the President's family - not the  
family of someone who wants to be President."  
  
God. He was going to have to tell her.  
  
"Nina. Sit down with me, okay?" He turned his chair so he was sitting  
knee-to-knee with her, and he reached over and took her hands. "Sam's an  
incredibly popular guy. He's the driving force behind a movement that's bringing  
hundreds of thousands of people - disenfranchised people, citizens who had long  
since given up on being part of the process - together as a force to bring about  
the changes we've needed since...well, forever."  
  
"I'm very proud of him," Nina said softly, glancing at Josh's face. Her eyes  
widened. "Someone's threatening him?"  
  
"It's not uncommon," Josh began, but Nina's voice cut him off.  
  
"Someone's threatening him? What the hell, Josh, why am I just hearing about it  
now?" She snatched her hands away from his and folded her arms across her chest,  
her hands clenching the fabric of her jacket.  
  
"We didn't want to worry you."  
  
"That's crap." She narrowed her eyes, her voice lowering to an almost feral  
growl. "Who's behind the threats?"  
  
"The usual charmers - a few people who didn't get it that the C.A.P. was pretty  
much toast, the anti-anything-that's-not-from-the-50's club, and various and  
sundry other strands cut loose from the lunatic fringe." Josh sighed and  
loosened his tie. "But that's not why Sam wanted someone to take care of you."  
  
Silence. Nina's face went white. "Oh."  
  
"Yeah." Josh got out of his chair and paced the room, knocking boxes and  
wastebaskets out of his way. "Most people would just think that threatening a  
politician's family wasn't anything out of the ordinary. But people who  
were...the ones who..."  
  
"Josh..." Nina turned in her chair and held her hand out to him, and he walked  
over and took it.  
  
Josh crouched by her chair, holding her hand and looking up at her. "We take  
this stuff seriously."  
  
"I know. I'm sorry." She shifted again, letting Josh hold her, unsure of who was  
receiving the most comfort. "What about Helen?" she whispered. "Did anyone  
threaten her?"  
  
"No." Josh's voice was firm.  
  
"Do you mean it?" Nina asked, lifting an eyebrow, "or is that what you've been  
told to tell me?"  
  
"Honest to God," Josh declared, "that's not happening. No one's made a peep  
about Helen. It's just you, and it's probably nothing, but we'll all sleep  
better if the Secret Service is on the case."  
  
Bartlet had threatened Josh with every dire punishment imaginable unless he  
allowed the strings to be pulled. "I will not see someone I love gunned down  
again," he had declared, in that fatherly voice Josh missed so, so much. "I will  
take care of this on my end, or, so help me God, I will bring her down to live  
with me until Sam's inaugurated."  
  
But Nina didn't need to know about that.  
  
Josh stood up and gently brought Nina to her feet. "Am I forgiven?" He made  
certain to accompany his question with what he thought of as his most winning  
smile.  
  
"Yes, and I owe you one for putting up with me when you're obviously having  
quite a lousy day. What can I do to make it up to you?"  
  
Laughing, Josh leaned against the table. "There's nothing in the world that I  
need."  
  
Liar.  
  
"Maggie's single, and I know she thinks you're adorable," Nina said, idly  
pushing some file folders until they formed a circle. "Or I could ask Donna to  
dinner on a night that Sam just happens to bring you home."  
  
"I see Donna just about every day."  
  
"In the office. In weird little rooms with too many take-out cartons and not  
enough windows."  
  
"She's just a co-worker," Josh insisted, wincing as he heard his voice climb  
half an octave. Maybe Nina wouldn't notice.  
  
"Your voice gets really squeaky when you lie like that."  
  
Dammit.  
  
"She hates me. I got scared of how close we were getting, I got involved with  
Amy, I married her, and now Amy's gone and Donna hates me."  
  
"Oh, for the love of God!" Nina cried to the ceiling, her hands spread wide in  
supplication. "How can you be the smartest guy I know and such a complete twit  
at the same time?"  
  
"It's a life skill," Josh said. "I got a merit badge for it."  
  
Nina laughed, and some of the worry lines on her face disappeared. "You may be a  
complete twit, Josh, but you're my complete twit."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind for when you become First Lady."  
  
She blanched again. "Don't say that."  
  
"What - you believe in jinxes, Nina?"  
  
"No! I just...well...it makes me feel a little queasy, that's all. The First  
Lady...thing. I mean, my role model is Abbey Bartlet, and how could I ever  
measure up to her?"  
  
"How could you not?" Josh pulled his paperwork together and nodded at the door.  
"I'll walk you out. Listen, you'd be the perfect First Lady. You'd bring the  
arts into the White House - not just as a fan, but as a performer. No one's ever  
done that before." Nina had brought music back into his life, something he  
didn't think could ever happen to him, and he had all the zeal of the  
freshly-converted. "You could spread the word that arts education is a vital  
component of every child's learning process, and that it's not a frill to be cut  
when times are hard." They got to the lobby, and Josh leaned over to give her a  
kiss on the cheek. Nina returned the kiss, then grinned as she wiped lipstick  
off Josh's face.  
  
"Thanks for the pep talk, coach."  
  
"Nothing to it. All I have to do is threaten you now and then with some more  
viola jokes and you're sweet as pie."  
  
"Stinker," Nina called over her shoulder as she walked out into the crisp  
February air, and she even managed a smile at the dark-suited woman who followed  
her to her car. Josh watched her jaunty strides until the women turned the  
corner, then hunched his shoulders against the cold and went back to the  
conference room to take on the remainder of the paperwork.  
  
"Josh."  
  
The disembodied voice startled him, and he paused with his hand over his heart.  
"Don't...do that," he whispered, squinting at Donna.  
  
She was standing in front of the window, where the setting sun backlit her and  
made her look as if she were glowing around the edges. "I didn't mean to scare  
you," she said softly.  
  
Josh found it hard to breathe. "What're you doing here?"  
  
Donna shrugged. She smoothed her hair, licking her lips as she took a breath. "I  
ran away, earlier."  
  
"I noticed," Josh said, trying to keep his tone level.  
  
"I'm sorry. It's just that...sometimes...you scare me." She took a couple of  
steps forward. "Sometimes you get to be the old Josh, and then suddenly it's  
gone, and I never know who I'm really talking to anymore."  
  
Smiling softly, Josh leaned against the wall. The change of angle afforded him a  
better view of Donna's eyes, which were soft and a little misty. "I'm a pretty  
old Josh. You're almost as old as I was when you started working for me."  
  
"Making cracks about a woman's age won't go far in helping you win her  
affection, Joshua."  
  
She hadn't called him that in...forever.  
  
"I just mean," he said, testing each word before letting it leave his lips,  
"that you're a wiser woman than before."  
  
"Not all that wise," she whispered, and for a moment Josh was afraid there would  
be tears. "I just...I can't go through that, again. I almost lost you at  
Rosslyn, then that Christmas, and then I really did lose you to Amy. I can't  
afford to let myself get that close to you anymore."  
  
Oh.  
  
"Oh," Josh said. He looked down at his shoes, then across the room, anywhere but  
Donna's shimmering eyes. "I'm sorry," he added.  
  
"Me, too. You were my best friend. I missed you."  
  
Oh. Oh.  
  
She crossed the room and took his hands, standing just close enough for him to  
get a whiff of cologne. Not the one she'd worn in the White House, but a new  
one, a more mature fragrance he'd forever associate with her.  
  
"I missed you, too," he confessed, exhaling the words. They stood like that for  
a while, holding hands, not moving, scarcely breathing. Blushing, a little. "So.  
What happens now?"  
  
"I go home and work on getting more people behind us for 724 and 618. You go  
home and, well, I don't exactly want to know. But we both think for a while, and  
we plan something, maybe a lunch, and we plan to take things one day at a time."  
Her voice thickened with tears. "It took a long time to get over you, Josh. I  
can't just leap back to where we were."  
  
"I know that," Josh murmured, his heart full of joy. He ran one hand up Donna's  
arm, then tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.  
  
She smiled at him, a watery, beautiful, brilliant smile, then without another  
word she picked up her briefcase and vanished.  
  
It was an offer of friendship. And no one knew better than Josh the value of  
having Donnatella Moss as a friend.  
  
Or more.  
  
***   
Part two   
  



	2. Chapter Two

***   
March   
***  
  
"The ayes have it."  
  
Yes, the ayes had it - the bill mandating the largest increase in the minimum  
wage ever seen, softened by tax incentives for small companies so they could  
afford to comply. Whether the President would sign it was another matter, but  
the buzz on the Hill was that Schiller would have no choice, given the hunger  
for reform that was sweeping the nation. Negotiations would have been  
nightmarish without Matt's consummate, masterful skill.  
  
Sam watched with pride as even the Senators who had voted against the bill shook  
hands with Matt and congratulated him on a job well done. Some of those same  
Senators had cried out in anger when Matt switched parties. There were others,  
in the end, who found themselves doing the same thing.  
  
Sure, it was easier to get things through the Senate now that the balance was  
54-46. But Matt knew what was happening on both sides of the aisle, and it was  
his boundless knowledge that was getting the job done.  
  
It was at that moment, in the Senate chamber, while engaged in the mundane act  
of putting his pen in his pocket, that Sam realized that his staff and friends  
had been working themselves to death for no reason whatsoever.  
  
Sam's eyes lit up and he bolted from the magnificent room, scarcely looking at  
Matt, or anyone else, for that matter. He'd had his very own personal, private  
epiphany and he couldn't wait to share it.  
  
"Where's Josh?" he asked of the newest temporary assistant. Josh had given up  
trying to remember their names. None of them stuck around long enough to make  
that necessary.  
  
"Who's Josh?" And now, they weren't learning Josh's name, either.  
  
"That would be Mr. Lyman," Sam explained as patiently as he could.  
  
"Oh. Well, Mr. Lyman's on the phone in his office. May I give him your name?"  
  
Sam blinked at the young woman, who clearly had no idea who he was. Trying to  
conceal his amusement, Sam cleared his throat. "Tell him that Sam Seaborn's  
here."  
  
"And you're with...?"  
  
Holy God, whoever was in charge of personnel must be sending these people as a  
joke. "The United States Senate."  
  
The woman nodded, writing it down on a note pad and spelling it with an "e" on  
the end. "May I ask what it's about?"  
  
"I'm sorry - perhaps I didn't make myself clear. I'm Senator Sam Seaborn, with,  
uh, only one 'e,' and Mr. Lyman is my Chief of Staff." That didn't seem to get a  
response. "I'm his boss."  
  
"So, I should get him, then?"  
  
"That'd be good. Yes. Please."  
  
At long last, the woman punched a button on the intercom. "There's a Senator Sam  
Seaborn to see you," she said.  
  
Josh appeared, flinging his door open and waving Sam into the office. "Hey, I  
watched the vote - you guys kicked some serious ass."  
  
"Thanks." Sam waited until the door was shut again before pointing at the  
anteroom. "Who, or what, is she?"  
  
"My temp for the day. I'm not bothering to learn their names, either," Josh  
snorted.  
  
"Good, because this one didn't even know who I was."  
  
Josh rolled his eyes. "Wow. Man, we have got to start this campaign off for  
real."  
  
Sam considered that for a moment. "Well, don't do it on her account. I mean, who  
doesn't know the name of the guy she works for?"  
  
"I am going to find out who's been sending me these idiots, and I will make them  
pay." Josh took a seat and moved some paperwork aside so he could lean on the  
desk. "C.J. called. She's doing a segment tonight, and she wants a prominent  
Democratic Senator to do a remote interview. You up for it?"  
  
"As a matter of fact, I'm not."  
  
Josh's face froze in an expression of terror. "Sam. Listen, you're not getting  
cold feet again, are you? Because if you are, then--"  
  
"No, it's not that. I'm not getting cold feet. I've just had this...Josh, I know  
you and Donna and Matt have gone over and over a short list for a potential  
running mate, but you're all chasing your tails."  
  
"You can say that again." He leaned his cheek on his hand and looked at Sam. "So  
what's your idea?"  
  
Sam leaned back in the chair and prepared for fireworks. "I think it should be  
Matt Skinner."  
  
If Josh were a cartoon, then Sam would have been able to see wheels spinning and  
smoke coming out of his nostrils.  
  
"Just let me be clear about this - you mean Matt Skinner." Josh waved in a  
direction that might or might not have been Matt's office. "Our Matt Skinner."  
  
"You know another Matt Skinner? Of course, that Matt Skinner."  
  
"Oh, come on!"  
  
"Josh, listen to me! You've been saying for months that I need to be more  
proactive, that I can't let the D.N.C. take over if this gets to be big. Well,  
I'm doing it. Look at the debate we've had for the last three days - and the  
meetings before that. Who got the job done?"  
  
Sam knew Josh was defeated because he now had his face completely buried in his  
hands. "Thing is," Josh sighed, "I know you're right. But I also know that  
Matt's going to turn you down, and that'll get you depressed  
and...and...cantankerous. And you'll throw out all the names we've gotten, and  
you'll go back to Matt again and again, and this will never, ever end."  
  
"We won't know until we ask him." Sam got up and put his hands into his pockets.  
"C'mon, Josh. Let's take a walk."  
  
"Matt, huh?" Josh tested the idea. "Vice-President Skinner. Kinda grows on you."  
  
"Let's go," Sam insisted, holding the door as Josh scrabbled around on his desk  
for his tie. As they passed the assistant's desk, Sam told her "We're going down  
the hall to see Matt Skinner. He's a United States Senator, too."  
  
The woman nodded slowly, still without comprehension.  
  
"By 'we,'" Josh said, his eyes twinkling, "we mean Senator Sam Seaborn of  
California, this man here, and myself, Joshua Lyman, the Senator's Chief of  
Staff and your boss until five p.m., which will give you plenty of time to  
freshen up for the Justin Timberlake concert on the mall. It's been a pleasure."  
  
They breezed down the corridors, stealing amused glances at one another as they  
rode the elevator to the floor for Matt's office. Sam, who had been burning with  
curiosity for a few weeks now, finally spoke. "So how are things with you and  
Donna?"  
  
Bulls-eye. Josh actually looked annoyed. "We've gone out for exactly one dinner  
- working, with actual papers and laptops and pagers and everything - and a few  
lunches. Also working."  
  
"Ah." Sam bounced up and down on his heels as he waited for the elevator door to  
open. "Need any help?"  
  
"Sam!" Josh almost fell over as he rounded the corner.  
  
"I'm just saying, Josh, that you managed to screw things up pretty badly the  
first time, and that maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea if--"  
  
"Sam, you are the only man I know who accidentally slept with a prostitute. You  
then told your boss' daughter, on whom you ended up having a considerable crush,  
that you'd done it. We're not going to bring up the blonde, leggy Republican  
lawyer who kicked your ass on television, but I will conclude my refusal of your  
kind offer by reminding you that you met your wife by spilling booze on her  
head."  
  
They stopped walking.  
  
"You make some excellent points," Sam admitted.  
  
"Yes, I do."  
  
"Seriously, though - are things getting back to normal?"  
  
"Since when have Donna and I ever been normal?" Josh grinned. "It's fine. It's a  
working friendship, Sam, and I'd missed that more than I could ever tell you."  
  
Sam leaned slightly backwards. "But if it turns into something else, you'll let  
me know, right?"  
  
"Yeah, buddy, you'll be my first call. 'Cause I'll need a bodyguard right about  
the time that Matt finds out." Josh clapped Sam on the shoulder as they walked  
into Matt's outer office.  
  
"Matt finds out what?" asked the Senator, who was leaning over his assistant's  
desk, looking at his weekly schedule.  
  
"Nothing," Josh and Sam said together. Then, also together, they said, "You got  
a minute?"  
  
Matt chuckled. "You guys practice that routine?"  
  
"No," they chorused in identically aggravated tones.  
  
"Okay." Matt ushered them into his office. "Josh, I know you must've been  
watching the vote. What do you think?"  
  
"I think it's about damn time, and I think it's going to be something Schiller  
absolutely, positively has to sign." He looked over at Sam. "But that's not why  
we're here. Sam has something - we have something...well..."  
  
"Maybe we'd better sit down, guys," Matt said softly. Josh and Sam took the  
visitor's chairs opposite his desk. "What's the matter?"  
  
"Nothing. In fact, I think you'll regard what I'm about to say as good news,"  
Sam said. He hoped he wasn't sounding like an idiot. He took a deep breath.  
"We're scratching the search for a V.P. candidate."  
  
"Oh, no, you're not getting cold feet again, are you?" Matt asked.  
  
"Why does everyone think that?"  
  
"Because, Sam, sometimes you get this trapped look, and I just know the next  
words out of your mouth will be 'I quit.'"  
  
Sam sighed. "I'm not quitting. I may get...spooked, now and again, but I'm not  
quitting. And you're going to make sure of that."  
  
"Me?" Matt cocked his head to one side, smiling. "What're you talking about?"  
  
"I've found my running mate, Matt. It's you."  
  
Silence.  
  
Matt's smile evaporated. "You're kidding, Sam."  
  
"No, I'm not."  
  
"Sam, you're kidding."  
  
"I'm really not."  
  
Josh stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankle. "He is not kidding in  
his chair, he is not kidding anywhere." When no one laughed, Josh looked up at  
the ceiling and bit his lip.  
  
"He's right, though," Sam said firmly. "I'm not kidding. I've thought this  
through, and you're the only person who could possibly do the job. You have an  
outstanding political mind. You've seen the inner workings of the government  
from both sides of the aisle - plus, all the things you know so much about  
aren't exactly my specialties. We'd actually be a team, not just a leader and a  
ceremonial figurehead, but a different kind of President and Vice-President.  
Working together. Think about what the sum of our parts could be!"  
  
"We'd never get there," Matt whispered. "It's a beautiful idea, Sam, it's  
Camelot, it's perfect, but you know as well as I do why I have to say no."  
  
"No, as a matter of fact, I don't. Care to enlighten me?" Sam looked at Matt,  
then at Josh. "Oh, you cannot be serious."  
  
"You don't think it'd be a liability?"Matt asked, sounding incredulous. "Can you  
honestly sit there and say that it might not cost you the election to have an  
openly gay running mate?"  
  
"Yes. Yes, I can." Sam at up straight. "Have you seen opinion polls since the  
C.A.P. thing went down? The ones where something like 72 percent of those polled  
admire you for not stepping aside and letting those guys oust you?"  
  
"They're gay, Sam."  
  
"Not all of them. You've got incredible support from the mainstream population -  
more than you realize. You helped countless Americans consider the difference  
between what should be law and what should be personal."  
  
"I'm flattered. More than flattered, I'm...moved. But..." Matt's strong fingers  
played his desktop as if it were a keyboard, a habit he fell into when he was  
thinking, or nervous, and Sam imagined he would be both right now.  
  
"But?" Josh prompted.  
  
"There's nothing I want more than to see you get elected President, Sam.  
Nothing. And I don't want to be the reason that doesn't happen." He paused. "And  
it's not just my decision."  
  
Taking his cue from Donna, Matt had kept his own personal life under wraps,  
living quietly for the past year in a Georgetown duplex with Gary Tennenberg  
whenever Gary didn't have to be in New York.  
  
"I understand that," Sam said softly. "I went through this with Nina. There were  
a lot of conversations. Some of them while she was eating soda crackers and  
saying she never wanted me to touch her again, I'll grant you, but still. We did  
have to talk about it."  
  
"It won't be quite the same for us," Matt replied, his dark eyes fixed intently  
upon Sam.  
  
"I understand, that, too." Sam got up and motioned for Josh to follow. "Talk to  
Gary. Think about it for a while. But not for too long."  
  
Matt rose, his expression still registering a combination of shock and  
gratitude, and said, "I'll have an answer for you in the next day or so."  
  
"Good," Sam declared, his confidence rising as he and Josh headed for the door.  
He turned around and shook Matt's hand, clasping it firmly. "You'd be a voice,  
Matt - and God knows that enough people have been waiting all their lives for  
that voice."  
  
"I know," Matt said, still sounding awestruck. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."  
  
"Thanks." Sam waited until Josh had also shaken Matt's hand, then turned and  
headed back toward the elevator.  
  
It had been a good day, so far, and there didn't seem to be any reason to stop  
spreading the goodness around. "Damn," he said, his finger hovering over the  
call button. "Someone should stop Donna from working on those files anymore -  
want to bet that Matt doesn't tell her until he's told Gary?"  
  
A slow, warm smile spread across Josh's face, and his eyes brightened. "I'm on  
it," he said, taking off for Donna's office without another word.  
  
Sam didn't bother to repress his smirk as he got into the elevator,  
congratulating himself on yet another job well done.  
  
***  
  
"Hello, it's good to see you, Josh," said Mai, Donna's sleekly efficient  
assistant. "She's talking to Hugh in his office, but it's nothing important. Go  
on in, and I'll tell her you're here."  
  
Josh looked around the office, noticing that an old photo of Donna and him from  
the second campaign was on the wall beneath a picture of Donna and Matt at a  
D.N.C. fundraiser. "Has this always been here?" Josh asked, pointing at his  
picture as Donna walked over to him.  
  
"Zoey sent that to me a few weeks ago. She was going through some stuff and came  
across that picture."  
  
"And she sent it to you, not me?"  
  
"Josh, Zoey and I e-mail each other about three times a week. You never talk to  
her unless she happens to be in New Hampshire while you're planning strategy  
with Toby."  
  
"Ah. No one to blame but myself, then."  
  
"Exactly." Donna looked at her watch. "I've got a meeting in about an hour, so  
if you need me to start going through the Adams and Fry files, then--"  
  
"No, no, not that." Josh sat on the edge of her desk. "In fact, you can ditch  
the Adams and Fry files. Along with the rest of them."  
  
Donna's eyes widened and she shook her head. "Don't tell me Sam's getting cold  
feet again!"  
  
"No, although that's the conclusion everyone's coming to today," Josh said,  
grinning. "It's good. Great, in fact. I think you're gonna love it."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Sam's picked his running mate."  
  
"Wonderful!" Donna stopped and held her hand in front of her. "Wait, wait - it's  
not you, is it?"  
  
"Donna!"  
  
"I'm just saying...anyway. Who?"  
  
Josh smiled at her. "Matt."  
  
Two beats of silence. "My Matt?" Donna asked, her hand coming to rest over her  
heart.  
  
"None other. What do you think?"  
  
"What do I think? I think he'd be brilliant. He's a perfect compliment for Sam,  
he's got experience with legislation on both sides of the aisle, and he'd bring  
in who knows how many disenfranchised voters because they'd finally have someone  
they could admire. Josh, this is wonderful!" She astonished Josh by flinging her  
arms around his neck and hugging him.  
  
He let his hands roam across her back, down to her slim waist, and buried his  
face in her hair. "It is wonderful," he whispered, meaning something else  
entirely.  
  
Donna's body stiffened and she pulled away, not unkindly, her fingers brushing  
against his chest. "Josh."  
  
"I know. Heat of the moment." He shook his head. "No, not heat of the moment.  
I've waited for this, waited for you to give me a sign, and...well, was that a  
sign? I can't tell."  
  
"I don't know. I don't think so." But her head was lowered, her hair spilling in  
front of her face so that Josh couldn't read her expression.  
  
"I know you said you didn't want to rush back to where we were, back in the  
White House. I understand that, I really do, and I've tried to be patient, but  
Donna, I'm--"  
  
"Josh, please, no." She turned away from him, facing her bookcase, breathing  
shallowly.  
  
He felt a lump growing in his throat. Slowly he walked up behind Donna, his  
hands just above her shoulders but not touching them. "I was, from the first day  
we met, completely crazy about you. I was also, you know, clueless." He waited  
for her to make a joke, but the room was silent except for their breathing. "I  
was wrapped up in the politics and the show I needed to put on, and since I've  
always sucked at compartmentalizing, I managed to convince myself that you  
didn't feel the same way and that I needed to get past that."  
  
Not that it had ever really worked.  
  
"You married Amy," Donna said softly. "I mean, we both dated, we were both, I  
don't know, sublimating or something. But you married her, Josh. You loved her  
enough to do that. Even if it was sort of an accident."  
  
"I have a big heart," Josh said. "Not as big as my ego, but big enough. And  
Amy's a good person. You know that about her, right?"  
  
"I like her better than I did."  
  
Donna's statement was sufficiently ambiguous to make Josh wince. "It wasn't  
until you left that I realized I'd been deceiving myself," he said, finally  
bringing his hands to rest on her shoulders, letting the fine ends of her hair  
tickle his fingers. "I made a mistake, Donna - a mistake that caused pain for  
one of the women I admire most in the world."  
  
"You honored your vows," Donna said. She reached up and patted his hand. "I  
never wanted to be in the way of that. And it hurt too much, being around you.  
It reminded me of what we had, before, and I knew I could never have that  
again." She paused, turning her head slightly, and Josh could see the beginnings  
of a smile. "Thank God Amy's a lesbian."  
  
"She's bisexual," Josh corrected. "And, you know, ouch." Donna leaned against  
him, bringing his arms around her so that her back was to his chest and her face  
was almost touching his. He whispered into her ear. "I'm crazy about you all  
over again, you know that, right?"  
  
"I know that." She wriggled out of his embrace and brushed imaginary lint off  
her blouse. "And it's not that I don't understand - and share - the feeling. But  
I need more time, Josh. I'm not saying this to be coy or anything, but I really  
do need..."  
  
"...some more time," he finished, nodding abruptly, feeling like a kicked puppy.  
  
"I know that's not the answer you want, Josh, or even the answer I'd like to be  
able to give." She straightened his tie, a gesture she'd done a thousand times  
all those years ago, a gesture that made them both smile. "But, in the meantime,  
if you need a best friend who's not busy running for President, then I'm your  
guy."  
  
"My...guy?" Josh inquired, raising an eyebrow. "I know, I know, get the hell out  
of your office."  
  
"That much, you've gotten right." She grinned at him. "I'm really happy about  
Matt. Has he talked to Gary, yet?"  
  
"They're going to discuss it tonight," Josh replied as he went into the outer  
office and shut the door behind himself. Mai was watching him from the corner of  
her eyes, so Josh leaned against the door and spoke softly. "Sam's getting his  
answer tomorrow. Just thought you might like to know that."  
  
He heard a thump at that point, which was probably Donna banging her head  
against her desk.  
  
***   
Part Three   
  



	3. Chapter Three

***   
August   
New York City   
***  
  
"That's some headline," C.J. said as she pushed the newspaper toward Andrew.  
"Obviously a slow news day over at the Times."  
  
Andrew looked from C.J.'s face to the paper. "'Practical Politics or Personal  
Preference?' Perspicacious, positively."  
  
Groaning, C.J. poked holes in her empty styrofoam coffee cup with the red  
plastic stirrer. "Seriously. You think this is going to be a thing?"  
  
"I doubt it." He turned the headline face down. "Look, there's not much going on  
in the world this week, and you've got a face that sells papers. You're friends  
with the hot Presidential hopeful - whose face doesn't exactly turn readers'  
stomachs, either - and it's a story."  
  
"You know that, and I know that. Do you think the suits will be able to figure  
it out?"  
  
"Maybe if we did it in a pie chart." Andrew peered at C.J. over his wire-rimmed  
glasses. "Joke. You're supposed to laugh, boss."  
  
She tried to oblige, but the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach wouldn't let  
her. The New York Times - she made a mental note to cancel her home subscription  
and only read it in the office - had all but accused her of being unable to keep  
her partiality for Sam's causes under wraps.  
  
"I never said anything on the air that could be construed as biased," she said.  
  
"And you'll notice that I never said you did." Andrew maintained his cool, which  
was what made him such an outstanding director. "You might want to re-think  
appearing in public for him, though."  
  
"Why the hell should I? Since when did I lose my rights?"  
  
"You didn't lose--"  
  
"I did! You're telling me I can't campaign for the candidate of my choice!"  
  
"C.J." Andrew took the stirrer out of her hands and threw it into the trash can  
before C.J. could do any more damage. "Give the D.N.C. money. Get Toby to write  
copy for Sam. But please, for the love of everything holy, do not make public  
appearances supporting him. It gives the impression that you're biased."  
  
"I am biased, and I'm allowed to be biased as long as I don't try to present the  
bias as fact. Although Sam is the best possible candidate for the job, and that  
is a fact." C.J. scowled, looking around the table for something to demolish.  
Andrew handed her a paper napkin, and she started shredding it into long, jagged  
strips.  
  
"I'm just saying that you might want to lighten up a little on the glowing  
praise in your personal segments. And maybe find something good to say about  
Seth Gillette."  
  
"Not in a million years. The man was a thorn in our sides for, you know, ever.  
He's a pompous jackass with no moral center and the social graces of a deranged  
hyena."  
  
"Okay. I give up." Andrew flung his hands in the air. "Now, how about we discuss  
the guest list for the Labor Day show?"  
  
"Kill me now," C.J. moaned. "Why did we agree to do that, anyway? I was going to  
New Hampshire for the long weekend."  
  
"Get Toby to come here."  
  
"Yes, because Manhattan in September is such a pleasant place to be." The  
weather was always wretched at that time of year, oppressive on a level that  
left C.J. feeling flattened by the time she walked from the cab to the front  
door. "I know, I know, we're trying to bring the holiday back to its roots, and  
we're going to talk to people who actually do the jobs that C.E.O.'s get paid  
for. I just wish--"  
  
The door to Andrew's office flew open and one of the interns came in, flushed  
and breathless. "Ms. Cregg, we're getting reports about a helicopter leaving the  
Bartlet place in New Hampshire."  
  
"That's not unheard of - there are people who don't like the drive from the  
airport--"  
  
"Ms. Cregg, it was a Care Flight. One of the neighbors saw it, and 911 records  
confirm. And I know you're friends with the family, so I wanted to make sure you  
knew right away."  
  
She didn't even thank the boy, just leapt to her feet and started running toward  
her office. "Someone get me whatever you can find on a Care Flight helicopter  
leaving the Bartlet farm." As various assistants dashed off to do her bidding,  
C.J. pulled out her cell phone and dialed Toby's number. The answering message  
was curt: "You found me, but I don't want to talk to you right now. Leave a  
message."  
  
No help. And there was surely no point in calling the house.  
  
Damn, damn, damn.  
  
Next in line would be Sam, who was probably in a committee meeting and wouldn't  
have any more information than she had, herself. Plus, he'd get worried -  
scratch that, he'd get frantic - and that was a visual C.J. could do without  
seeing on the nightly news.  
  
Josh? Please. Who went to Josh in an emergency? No, you'd go to Donna.  
  
Donna was number three on the speed dial, just behind Toby and C.J.'s oldest  
brother. "Hello, Mai, this is C.J. Cregg. Is Donna available? It's urgent."  
  
"Yes, Ms. Cregg, she'll be with you in a moment."  
  
C.J. paced the room, picking up books and ornaments and not looking at them as  
she tossed them into a strange pile on her desk. "Donna!" she cried when there  
was an answer on the other end. "A Care Flight helicopter took off from the  
Bartlets' a while ago. I don't know what's wrong."  
  
"Toby didn't answer his cell?"  
  
"No, I got the machine. Listen, can you poke around for me? Maybe find out  
something I can't?"  
  
She had a vague idea of how ridiculous that sounded, given that she was one of  
the most influential people in a vast media organization.  
  
"Wait, hold on - I have a number for one of the neighbors. I'll call, then I'll  
call you right back."  
  
Not so ridiculous. Donnatella Moss, fastest contact person in the West, able to  
leap tall Rolodexes in a single bound.  
  
"Thanks - God, I hope the President's okay."  
  
Relapsing-remitting could turn into Secondary-progressive...  
  
"Me, too." Donna's voice was small. "You're on your cell, right? I'll be right  
back."  
  
Another intern knocked on C.J.'s door. "I got this from a wire - the helicopter  
was bound for Boston, but there's bad weather so they're coming here."  
  
"Which hospital?" C.J. gasped.  
  
"I'm waiting for them to tell the pilot. But I'll be right back."  
  
"Thanks, Cindy."  
  
"Mindy. And you're welcome."  
  
Donna kept her word, and the phone rang again. "C.J., I'm on a conference call  
with Stephen Pierce - he lives not too far from the Bartlets and he's willing to  
talk to you."  
  
"You're wonderful. Hello, Mr. Pierce? I'm C.J. Cregg. You're very kind to talk  
to me this morning."  
  
"Not at all, glad to help." He had the laconic, flat-voweled voice C.J. usually  
found amusing. "I was driving home from the store when I heard the copter  
overhead. About frightened me out of my wits. I pulled over when the police and  
ambulance guys came by, and I saw them bring him out of the house."  
  
C.J.'s heart began to pound and her palms were sweating. "Was he walking, or did  
they have him on a stretcher?"  
  
"Oh, he was on a stretcher."  
  
"The President was on a stretcher," C.J. repeated, writing as well as she could  
with her clammy hand.  
  
"Oh, no, ma'am. Not the President."  
  
C.J. heard Donna gasp on her end of the line.  
  
"Who was it?" C.J. asked, but she already knew.  
  
"It was that fella who lives with them, the guy with the beard."  
  
She didn't remember much of what happened in the next twenty seconds. Something  
about Donna thanking Mr. Pierce and hanging up on him, then telling C.J.  
repeatedly that everything was going to be all right.  
  
C.J. half-stumbled out of her office. "Get Andrew," she said. She caught a  
glimpse of herself in the window. Her face was deathly white. "Tell him it's  
Toby."  
  
"Oh, C.J.," murmured one of the secretaries as she got up and went to deliver  
the message.  
  
It's Toby. It's Toby. He's in the air somewhere over this city and I don't know  
where he is, or if he's alive...  
  
"NYU Medical Center!" shouted Mindy. "They say the e.t.a. is ten minutes."  
  
"Can I get there in ten minutes?" C.J. asked. "Can someone get their trauma  
center on the phone?"  
  
"Working on it," Mindy said, holding the phone to her head with one hand and  
covering the other ear.  
  
"Should I call a cab?" asked one of the secretaries, but Andrew burst in before  
C.J. could answer.  
  
He grabbed her and hugged her, then stood with his hands on her upper arms. "I'm  
so sorry. What's the news?"  
  
"I don't know. Lindy, over there, is trying to get someone from the N.Y.U.  
trauma center on the phone. We don't know anything. I don't know anything."  
  
Andrew squeezed her arms gently. "I think...Mindy," he said, exaggerating the  
name slightly, "will have someone shortly. Then, when you have more information,  
you and I are taking a cab ride together."  
  
"I'm fine," C.J. said weakly, but then her knees buckled and she leaned against  
Andrew for support. "Oh, my God, what's taking so long? Wouldn't they at least  
let me know if he's alive?"  
  
"You don't know what happened. He could've fallen down and broken an arm or  
something."  
  
"They don't Care Flight for a broken arm - Manchester's not that backward!"  
  
Mindy handed her phone to C.J. "It's a nurse. Her name's Shalini."  
  
"Thanks. Excuse me, this is C.J. Cregg. I understand you have a patient coming  
in via Care Flight - his name is Toby Ziegler, white male, 51 years old. Can you  
tell me why he's coming in?"  
  
"I'm so sorry," said the nurse. "We're not allowed to divulge that information  
to the media."  
  
"I'm not media!"  
  
"You are to me - I watch your show on my nights off."  
  
Damn. Damn. Damn.  
  
"I appreciate the situation, but it's not the way it looks. I worked with Mr.  
Ziegler for many years, and we were friends for years before that. So any  
information..."  
  
"I'm sorry, ma'am, there's a stretcher coming in - I can't talk now. Please  
excuse me."  
  
The phone went dead.  
  
"This is not happening to me," C.J. groaned. Mindy took the phone back and began  
asking the hospital for various administrative offices.  
  
"Dr. Stephens, you're the director of Trauma? Please hold for C.J. Cregg."  
  
C.J. snatched the phone. "Dr. Stephens? Please, can you tell me about Toby  
Ziegler? He's either en route or already at your facility."  
  
"I can confirm that Mr. Ziegler is in the hospital. But I can't tell you any  
more unless you're family."  
  
"Oh, God, please, not that again!" She had difficulty catching her breath, and  
hot tears were rolling down her face. "I'm not calling to put this on the news!  
I know Toby, and I love him, and please, please can you at least tell me if he's  
alive?"  
  
There was silence for a moment.  
  
"Dr. Stephens? Hello? Hello?"  
  
"I'm sorry, Ms. Cregg..."  
  
Oh, God, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead...  
  
"...I had to check the board. Mr. Ziegler is alive - but that's really all I can  
tell you. Even that's going a bit too far. I hope you understand."  
  
C.J. collapsed against the wall, sliding down until she could fold her arms over  
her knees, then she began to weep aloud. Alarmed, Andrew knelt beside her. "C  
.J.? What is it?"  
  
"He's alive," C.J. sobbed, "but that's all they can tell me."  
  
"It's a good start, honey, it's a good start." He sat cross-legged on the floor  
opposite her. "I've got Tom sitting in for you tonight, and someone's calling a  
cab right now. Don't worry about anything but Toby, you understand?"  
  
"Of course I'm not worrying about anything but Toby! God, don't you get it?" She  
lifted her tear-streaked face. Wet mascara stung her eyes as much as the tears  
did. "He's the only thing that matters - he's the only one I love..."  
  
"Ssh, ssh, honey, it's all right, it's all right." Andrew put his arms around  
her and rocked her back and forth. "What's taking that damn cab so long?" he  
snapped.  
  
"There's a police cordon or something," Mindy informed him, covering the  
receiver of the phone with one hand. "They're calling up from downstairs...no,  
wait, it's Secret Service."  
  
"Secure the area!" came a booming voice, and everyone was removed from the  
office but Andrew and C.J. "Clear!"  
  
Through a haze of fear and terror, C.J. saw the familiar figure of Abbey  
Bartlet.  
  
Andrew nearly dropped C.J. to the ground in his haste to stand up, but C.J. was  
too shaken to move. Abbey held out her hands for C.J. to grasp. "It's okay, C.J.  
I wouldn't be here if I thought it wasn't safe to leave him." She turned to  
Andrew. "I'm Abigail Bartlet," she said, although the introduction was  
unnecessary. "You are?"  
  
"Andrew Wang. I direct 'Practical Politics.'"  
  
"Andrew, would you help me get C.J. off the floor? There's a car waiting for us  
downstairs, and I don't think it'd look too good if you had to carry her."  
  
"No, ma'am." Andrew put his hands on C.J.'s shoulders, guiding her to her feet.  
"There you go. Should I come with you?"  
  
"That's very kind, but it won't be necessary. I'll have someone call you from  
the hospital. And thank you for your help."  
  
"You're welcome. C.J., you hang in there, okay?"  
  
She nodded at him as Abbey linked arms with her. "They wouldn't tell me anything  
except that he's still alive."  
  
"It looks as if he had a mild heart attack."  
  
"Abbey!"  
  
"Ssh, ssh. Mild. He's conscious, and he's plenty pissed off. Mostly because he  
threw up in the helicopter. Does that sound like someone who's at death's door?"  
  
C.J. had to admit that it did not. She recognized the two agents who accompanied  
them to the car, but she was too busy trying to keep from crying to say anything  
to them. Abbey held her hand for the interminable cab ride. "They gave him  
nitroglycerin, and now they're running some tests."  
  
"Where's the President?"  
  
"President Schiller is in Washington. Jed's with Toby." Abbey bumped C.J.'s  
shoulder, trying to get her to smile. "He refused to leave Toby's side. I think  
he's remembering Leo."  
  
Fresh tears, and Abbey's handkerchief, and the dark-suited arms of the agents  
opening the car doors. That was all C.J. understood, just little things, not big  
pictures, nothing concrete. "I want to see him," she whispered as they took  
their seats in the waiting room. She put her head on Abbey's shoulder as if she  
were one of the Bartlet daughters or granddaughters, and Abbey stroked her hair  
as if she were, as well.  
  
"How long will it be before Ms. Cregg can see Mr. Ziegler?" Abbey asked one of  
the nurses.  
  
"I'm sorry - are you family? Because, otherwise, I can't let you in. We just now  
had to ask Mr...President...Bartlet to leave, as well."  
  
That set C.J. off into another spasm of sobs. She heard Bartlet's angry voice  
getting closer and closer. "I've tried and tried to explain to you people, but  
you simply do not get it! I don't get thrown out of hospital rooms, ever!" He  
stalked over to the two women and kissed each of them on the cheek. "Abbey, can  
you explain to these yahoos that, as the former leader of the free world, I'm  
not supposed to be subject to some ridiculous hospital policy? Claudia Jean,  
please don't cry, because if you keep crying, then I'll start, and then I'll  
look and feel like a complete idiot."  
  
"Okay, Jed, stop talking now, please." Abbey rose and shook hands with the  
nurse. "Hello, and I'm sorry my husband is being such a jackass."  
  
The nurse blinked in surprise.  
  
"What he means to say," Abbey continued smoothly, "is thank you for letting him  
stay with Mr. Ziegler while we went and got his wife, and now she'll be taking  
his place."  
  
C.J. couldn't help but smile at the bald-faced lie and the ice-cool way Abbey  
had delivered it.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Ziegler. Please, let me show you Mr. Ziegler's room."  
  
He wasn't in the emergency room or even I.C.U., just in a regular hospital room  
with one bed, an I.V. stand leaking something clear into his arm, and a heart  
monitor. His eyes were dark and a little cloudy from medication, and his smile  
was a little goofy. "Hey. You came all this way?"  
  
"All what way?" she asked, dragging a chair to the side of the bed and holding  
the hand that didn't have the needle in it.  
  
"To New Hampshire."  
  
"You're not in...you're in New York, Toby. Helicopter, remember?"  
  
"Yeah. I do." He cleared his throat, and his eyes became a little more focused.  
"I threw up. Twice."  
  
"So I hear." C.J. kissed his hand, kissed each precious finger, turned the hand  
over and kissed the palm, then pressed it to her face and held it there. "How do  
you feel?"  
  
"Like someone dropped an anvil on my chest." He looked around the room. "I  
thought Jed was here."  
  
"He's in the waiting room with Abbey. They said he had to leave - family only."  
  
"How'd you get in?"  
  
She felt the blush spreading across her cheeks. "Abbey, uh, pulled some strings.  
Actually, she lied, and if anyone asks, we're married."  
  
Toby didn't seem to mind that. He looked at C.J., then up at the ceiling. "Did  
we get married on the helicopter? 'Cause Josh got married on that battleship,  
and look what happened to him."  
  
Laughter was a sweet release after all the fear and crying. C.J. leaned over and  
kissed his forehead. "Don't worry. What happened with Amy will not be happening  
with me. My wiring's completely different."  
  
Before Toby could react, the Bartlets came into the room with Toby's chart.  
"Good news - it's not a heart attack, it's gastroenteritis."  
  
"I have...a stomachache?" Toby said, his eyebrows arching.  
  
"Well, it's a little more than that, but basically that's what you have. Stress,  
fatigue, whatever, maybe a little bug. But they're just keeping you here to make  
sure you're hydrated, and to run some more tests, so we'll see about springing  
you in the a couple of days."  
  
"Then we can drive home, right?" Toby asked, looking like an unhappy little boy  
at the thought of more flying.  
  
"Yes, we'll get a car and go that way. Meanwhile, we've taken a suite at the  
Plaza, a couple of blocks from your place, C.J.," said Bartlet. "Since we have  
trouble getting out and about, we'll expect frequent visits. Starting with  
dinner tonight, once visiting hours are over." The agents are expecting you,  
and one of them will be waiting by the reception desk."  
  
God, these people had done so much for her, for so long, and she didn't know  
where to start to convey her thanks. She looked up at them, hoping to convey by  
her expression the words that failed her.  
  
"I love you, C.J.," said Bartlet. "Don't ever forget that."  
  
"I won't," she whispered. "Good night."  
  
Abbey came over, smoothed her hair back from her forehead, and kissed her.  
"Don't stay too late - you both need some rest."  
  
C.J. didn't hear them leave, she was so wrapped up with looking into Toby's dark  
eyes. He smiled at her just as his eyelids began to flutter shut, and she felt  
his breathing getting deeper. Just as she thought he was falling asleep, she  
heard him say something.  
  
"What was that?" she asked, leaning over him.  
  
"I said, since we didn't get married in the helicopter, how about we do it in  
the car on the way home?"  
  
"Go to sleep, Toby," she whispered. She put her arms on the bed rail and laid  
her head down on them.  
  
"I mean it, C.J."  
  
"You're asleep, Toby."  
  
"I'm awake enough to know that I never want them to keep us apart again." He  
opened his eyes, and C.J. could see the spark in them that meant he was thinking  
at full throttle. "We got lucky this time, and it was nothing. What if someday,  
God forbid, something bad happened to one of us? We're getting to the age where  
that's more than likely. The only reason we're here, together, right now, is  
that Abbey pulled strings and, well, lied. What if she's not there when we need  
each other?"  
  
"Toby, I live in New York. You live in New Hampshire. Apart from the 'New,'  
there's not a lot in common."  
  
"Conjugal visits." He grinned. "We'd kill each other inside of six months if we  
lived together, C.J., you know that. But...well, consider it."  
  
"In the car, on the way home, tomorrow?"  
  
"Okay, that's pushing it. Say, Labor Day weekend, at the farm? Just us and Abbey  
and Jed and the local justice of the peace. We don't tell anyone, we don't make  
a fuss."  
  
The idea appealed to her. She adored Toby, she always had, and their  
relationship had always been, to put it mildly, unconventional.  
  
And, she thought as she watched Toby drift off to sleep, for real this time, it  
would certainly give her a way out of that damn "Practical Politics" special as  
well as provide something to talk about at dinner tonight.  
  
***   
Part Four   
  



	4. Chapter Four

Note to the more sensitive readers: this section contains a non-graphic but   
disturbing situation. Please read responsibly.  
  
***   
October   
Washington, D.C.   
***  
  
Nina walked up to the metal detector that had recently been installed at the  
musicians' entrance to the Kennedy Center. Behind her, in a long line, were some  
other musicians of the A.S.O., waiting as their cases were searched.  
  
The Secret Service agents flashed their badges at the detector operator, who  
allowed Nina to pass through, carrying her case and a small, black folder that  
contained her music. As she paused on the other side to get a copy of the week's  
schedule, she witnessed the disturbing comments of the other musicians.  
  
"She doesn't get searched?" Sean, one of the violinists, pointed at Nina and  
glared.  
  
"She's their protectee," replied the man standing guard over the x-ray machine.  
"She gets special treatment."  
  
The principal oboist's case was being searched, and she was the next to speak  
up. "They took my damn reed knife last week. As if I'd bother cutting her  
spoiled brat throat and dulling the blade."  
  
"That kind of talk can get you arrested," warned Sean.  
  
"Guys, come on." Maggie, attempting to be the voice of reason, waved her hands  
at her angry colleagues. "It's not as if Nina asked for this to happen."  
  
"For real," agreed Daniel, who watched, sighing, as his trombone was  
disassembled. "I mean, this is a serious pain in the ass, but if someone were  
trying to kill me, I'd expect my fellow artists to cut me some slack."  
  
Nina walked away from the buzzing group and went past the instrument storage  
area. The lockers had been replaced with cages that looked like kennels. Locks  
were only allowed if the guards had keys, and the lockers were routinely  
searched up to four times a day.  
  
Being let into the rehearsal hall before everyone else left Nina with little  
time to socialize. She uncased in silence and walked slowly to her seat. Warming  
up with a slow, romantic etude that emphasized the remarkable control she had  
over her bow, she blocked out the unpleasantness of the journey.  
  
One by one, the other musicians found their way to the stage. One or two stopped  
to speak to Nina, and Maggie gave her a brief hug as she went into the 'cello  
section. But by and large, Nina was ignored - at best. At worst, they sneered  
their contempt for the increasingly disruptive hoops they had to jump through  
just to get to work.  
  
The concertmaster stood and asked the oboist for his A, and the orchestra tuned  
just before the guest conductor, the Cliburn gold medalist Vadim Koenen, leapt  
onto the podium.  
  
"What is the meaning of this? Wasn't your call fifteen minutes ago? Why are you  
just now getting to rehearsal?" he thundered.  
  
"Security," muttered the associate concertmaster, and some of the other  
musicians snickered. "Didn't you have to get checked out?"  
  
"I came early enough to keep that from being an issue, and I suggest that, in  
future, you do the same. Now, let's not delay our friend Mr. Mahler any  
further."  
  
Sitting up straight in her chair and ignoring the pitying glances her stand  
partner gave her, Nina tried to direct her attention to the music, the glorious  
phrases, the rich harmonies. But the joy wasn't there. The spark she knew only  
in the rapture of music was missing. Her soul wasn't in her playing, although  
her technique was as fine as always, and in desperation she made herself think  
of Sam hovering above her as they made love.  
  
It made her a little horny, but it didn't improve her playing.  
  
Neither did the constant, peripheral knowledge that her two agents were flanking  
the stage - one just behind Maggie's stand of 'cellos, the other between the  
backs of the first and second violins.  
  
There were guns onstage, their possessors trained to kill, without question,  
anyone who threatened her. Nina didn't find it comforting in the least.  
  
Dammit, were they at letter G, or six before? She watched her partner's fingers,  
surreptitiously using the placement to figure out where she was on the page. But  
when she looked up to get a cue from the conductor, she found him staring down  
at her with utter derision. "Violas, precision, if you please!" he hissed, but  
it was to Nina and not the section that his words were addressed, and she felt  
herself turning scarlet with embarrassment. The sudden rush of blood to her face  
didn't help her concentration, and she fumbled a few more notes.  
  
The conductor lunged toward her with his baton, and within seconds he was  
slammed to his stand by the agents.  
  
"Do not threaten Ms. Fisher-Lennox," growled the taller of the two men as he  
held the conductor's hands behind his back.  
  
Nina had to be impressed, despite her abject humiliation, that the agents had  
become very adept at keeping her professional and personal names straight.  
  
"I was...gesturing!" the maestro protested, his words garbled by the position of  
his mouth against the of the stand. His breath left little clouds on the lucite,  
and the score's well-thumbed pages fluttered around the feet of all the first  
stand players. "I'm not going to hurt her, although I'll strongly suggest  
releasing her from her contract!"  
  
Maggie grimaced at Nina, who looked imploringly at the agents. The personnel  
director rushed from his place in the audience and yelled for an intermission.  
The orchestra was seventeen minutes into a two-hour rehearsal.  
  
Oh, God.  
  
Under ordinary circumstances, musicians would flee the stage as if pursued once  
they were told it was time for their break. But today, people stood around to  
see what would happen next.  
  
One look at the personnel manager's downcast eyes, and Nina knew exactly what  
would happen next. But all she could think about, as she looked down at her  
hands and waited for her sentence, was that she would finally be able to grow  
her fingernails out.  
  
***  
  
She told the story to Sam later that night, when he returned from a campaign  
stop in West Virginia.  
  
"I'm so sorry," Sam whispered into her ear as she fed Helen some pureed apples.  
"This isn't fair. It's not right."  
  
"They didn't have any choice, Sam. If you could've seen Paul's face when the  
guys shoved him into the stand...and the metal detectors, and the x-rays, and  
the searching, and we can't even lock up our instruments anymore without giving  
out two copies of the keys. I wouldn't want to work around me, either." Nina  
handed Helen to Sam and stood up, adjusting her clothes.  
  
"That doesn't mean I have to agree with their decision." He looked at her with  
the full force of his bright blue eyes. "We could hire a lawyer."  
  
"We're surrounded by lawyers, Sam. I don't think I've met anyone in the last two  
years who isn't a lawyer. But you don't need the negative publicity, and I don't  
need the heartache I'd get when I lost." She knew she sounded bitter, shrewish,  
so she took a deep breath and leaned over to kiss the top of Sam's head. "I'm a  
bitch when I get fired," she said softly.  
  
"You weren't fired - you were asked to take a leave of absence."  
  
"I just came back from a leave of absence - how long do you think this one will  
last?" Nina exclaimed, her voice rising enough to startle Helen. The baby cried,  
squirming in Sam's arms.  
  
Sam put Helen against his chest, rubbing his hand on her back in slow, rhythmic  
circles. "You knew, going into this, that there'd be issues with security."  
  
"I knew you'd have guys following you around, talking into their sleeves. I  
didn't know they'd follow me around, too. And, you have to admit, no one  
could've predicted today. Although, with my 20-20 hindsight, that seemed pretty  
inevitable."  
  
She had managed to hold back the tears all day, from the moment she heard the  
music director say that he loved her and hoped she could come back when the  
"madness" was over. She had not wept in front of Maggie or her other friends in  
the symphony, had not shed a single tear in the car after handing the keys to  
one of the agents and asking him to take her home. But when Sam reached for her  
with one hand, caressing her hair, she finally felt the dam breaking.  
  
"Say the word, and I'll drop out," Sam said, and that was when Nina lost her  
composure and cried bitterly for all she had lost, and for all that Sam was  
offering to lose for her sake.  
  
Nina, unable to speak, shook her head. She arched into Sam's caress like a cat,  
smiling through her tears as he held her with one arm and cradled Helen with the  
other.  
  
"I think," Sam said quietly, "that you should go to Manchester and talk to  
Abbey. What do you think?"  
  
Nina thought, as she let herself be comforted, that Abbey might be her only link  
to sanity.  
  
***   
Manchester   
The next evening   
***  
  
"Welcome to Jed Bartlet's Home for Wayward Staffers!" Bartlet rose from his  
favorite chair and embraced Nina while grinning at Abbey, who shook her head and  
sighed with feigned annoyance.  
  
"Come here, sweetie. Don't let him badger you." Abbey took her turn holding on  
to Nina, sensing her exhaustion and sorrow along with her natural reserve around  
the former First Couple. "Why didn't you bring Helen? We haven't seen her in  
ages."  
  
"Sam thought it'd be better if I had some time alone. Donna's staying with them  
for the weekend. She says she gets all her maternal instincts taken care of by  
the time the fourth diaper of the day is used up."  
  
"How is...Donna?" Bartlet asked diplomatically.  
  
Nina smiled. "Cautious."  
  
"Can't say as I blame her." Abbey commented. "And Josh?"  
  
"Have either of you heard of something called a 'nervous hoolelia?' Because  
that's what Sam calls Josh these days."  
  
Bartlet shrugged, reaching for his glasses and putting them on the bridge of his  
nose. "Sounds like a Seaborn original. Abigail, my precious, have you seen my  
notes on the second gubernatorial race?"  
  
"I believe you'll find them on the dining room table."  
  
"Then, ladies, if you'll excuse me, I have yet another exciting chapter of my  
next book to narrate to the unsuspecting dupe who lives in the carriage house.  
He'll be joining us for dinner, of course, so I'll let you two get caught up."  
With a lift of his eyebrows that lacked anything approaching subtlety, he left  
Nina and Abbey alone in the study.  
  
Abbey appraised Nina, taking in the uncharacteristic slouch, the dark circles  
under her pretty eyes, the way she kept looking at the designs in the well-worn  
Chinese rug. Sam had tried, in the halting way that affected his speech when  
talking about his wife or daughter, to convey what Nina was enduring, almost as  
if he were afraid of opening Abbey's old wounds.  
  
But she was a physician, after all, and she could heal herself as well as Nina.  
  
"I haven't known you as long as the others, of course," Abbey said, pouring tea  
into thin porcelain cups and offering one to Nina, "so I don't know how you  
prefer getting into these things, whether you like polite chitchat first or  
whether you'd rather just plunge into the nitty-gritty."  
  
Holding the cup in both hands and looking down at the bottom as if reading the  
leaves, Nina said, "Whatever's easiest for you."  
  
"This conversation isn't about me," Abbey said in her best no-nonsense tone.  
"Well, I suppose you could say it was, but I'll save that part for later on. Why  
don't you tell me--" The phone rang, and Abbey started to talk over it before it  
rang a second time. "Jed? Can you get that, please?"  
  
The ringing died down, and Abbey turned her attention to Nina again. "The Secret  
Service guys weren't very secret, I take it?"  
  
"Not really, no." Nina sighed and inhaled the fragrant steam, then took a  
tentative sip. "They all but barricaded the Kennedy Center, and people had to  
leave for work an hour early to get through the security lines I got to skip.  
You can't blame them for being unhappy about that."  
  
Before Abbey had a chance to say whether or not she agreed with Nina's analysis,  
the door flew open and her husband stood there, his face drawn into a rigid  
mask. "I'm sorry. That was C.J. There was a wire report - Amy's friend,  
her...significant other, or whatever."  
  
Abbey groaned. There were some things her husband just couldn't handle  
gracefully, she thought, but his next words drove that thread from her mind.  
  
"The husband tracked them down. Naima, Angela, and Amy have been missing for  
three days."  
  
***   
Washington, D.C.   
***  
  
Someone - Sam thought it might have been Danny Concannon - once said that if  
Donna and Josh ever got married, they'd have to rent a concert hall for her  
friends and a phone booth for his.  
  
Josh could be, and often was, the most obstinate son-of-a-bitch on the face of  
the earth. He lacked Matt's polished manners, lacked Toby's earnest zeal to do  
justly, lacked C.J.'s ability to command people without belittling them.  
  
But those who knew Josh best of all knew the truth: that, underneath the  
bragadoccio, his was a noble, loving heart that had been broken enough times to  
leave it perilously fragile.  
  
Watching Josh sit slumped over the conference table, his hands clasped so  
tightly together that his fingernails were turning bluish-white, was agonizing  
for Sam. Knowing that there was nothing he could do but wait until his  
connections in the State Department called him back made him feel as if he  
couldn't help his friend.  
  
"Do you think they're dead?" Josh asked for the twentieth time, and for the  
twentieth time Sam shook his head.  
  
"I think we'd have heard something. The Canadian Embassy is doing everything  
they can, and there are probably twenty guys from State finding their trail."  
  
Josh didn't seem to have heard. His eyes were fixed on an unknown point, staring  
at something only Josh could see. "I should've kept in better touch with her. I  
should've had someone working on whatever Canada uses for restraining orders."  
  
"This is not, in any way, shape, or form, your fault," Sam insisted. He sat down  
next to Josh, wishing Nina were with them, glad that she wasn't. Donna was  
spending the evening having "godmother time" with Helen, meaning that she'd  
taken the baby out for new clothes. There was no way Sam was going to break this  
news to her while she was out in public. Not news like this. They'd have to wait  
until she called in.  
  
Matt had better handle that call. Sam didn't think he could possibly do it.  
  
No, he'd do it. He'd do it all, whatever "it" might turn out to be. Because, if  
he really did manage to become President, he'd probably have to make a worse  
call than this one.  
  
There was a brass bowl on the table, full of fruit that no one would eat unless  
all the danishes and doughnuts were gone. Sam could see his reflection, and it  
startled him how much the conflict and pain in his eyes resembled Bartlet's when  
he had been compelled to give bad news.  
  
The silence was awful, but the sound of Josh's sharp, harsh breathing was worse.  
Sam reached out and patted Josh on the back. "It's been a couple of hours. We're  
having all calls directed to my cell phone. Why don't you go to your office and  
lie down for a while? I'll get you when I hear something."  
  
To Sam's relief, Josh didn't argue. He rose, rubbing the small of his back, and  
went through the door that connected his office with Sam's. Just as Sam reached  
for the phone, it started to ring. "C.J., is that you?"  
  
"Yeah." She sounded breathless. "Listen, is Josh anywhere near a television?"  
  
"I sent him to his office to lie down. CNN's usually on - why?"  
  
"Get him away. We're getting a satellite feed, and it'll be on the air in a few  
minutes...oh, God, Sam, it's awful..."  
  
Before he had a chance to ask her what was going on, Sam saw a "Special  
Bulletin" notice on the screen. He grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.  
  
"...that the missing women have been located in Kenya, near the Somalian  
border."  
  
"They found them!" Sam exclaimed into the phone. "Oh, thank God."  
  
"It's not good...I have to go - there's no one available and I'm going to have  
to do the story...someone look after Josh, he's gonna--" The phone went dead and  
Sam set it down, trying to listen carefully to what the announcer was saying.  
  
A grainy Polaroid photo covered the screen, showing a younger Naima with a tall  
man and a baby that must have been Angela.  
  
"Local authorities confirm that Kenyan national Saul Biru was killed by multiple  
stab wounds. His ex-wife, Naima Biru, is being held for questioning in his  
death. Their daughter, now five years old, is in the care of the director of a  
nearby Peace Corps headquarters."  
  
The photo changed to one of Amy. "American political activist Amy Gardner was  
critically injured at the Somalian camp where the murder occurred--"  
  
Sam missed the next few sentences because Josh burst through the doors and  
grabbed the remote from Sam's hands.  
  
"...attempting to stabilize her condition before moving her to a more  
sophisticated facility. Witnesses at the scene describe Ms. Gardner's wounds as  
indicative of the first stages of fibulation, also known as the most invasive  
form of female circumcision. While a common custom in some countries..."  
  
Josh's face drained of all color. Sam rushed over to him, holding fast to his  
shoulders. "Josh? Frank Torres is probably on a plane right now, and he'll find  
out what's going on. He's standing by, Josh, he's going to help us."  
  
"I know." His body was shaking under Sam's hands, and he was obviously doing  
everything in his power to keep from losing control. "God. Amy."  
  
"I'm so sorry." Sam was grateful that Ginger knew to come in and grab bottles of  
water from the little fridge. She handed one to Josh, who took it without  
looking at it. His attention was focused on the television, where someone from  
Amnesty International was describing the different levels at which the ritual  
was performed.  
  
"Shut it down, Ginger," Sam muttered, and Ginger went to the set and pressed the  
power button. The horrific description stopped, the pixelated video winking  
obscenely as the light went out.  
  
The sudden stillness made the sound of Josh's harsh breathing even more  
heartwrenching. "Should I be doing anything?" he asked. "Shouldn't there  
be...something?"  
  
Ginger's eyes filled with tears. "I'll get the latest from State, then I'll come  
right back." The look she gave Sam was one of pure compassion, and he patted her  
on the arm as she walked away.  
  
Josh scrabbled around on the desk for the remote. "I need to hear this, Sam," he  
said as Sam shook his head in protest. He flipped channels until he was on NBC.  
"I need to hear it from C.J."  
  
They both did. Sam hovered behind Josh as C.J.'s face appeared on the screen.  
"Two reporters from Agence France were present when Naima Biru was taken into  
custody, and their report is as follows." C.J. adjusted her glasses, scanning  
the text before reading aloud.  
  
"Three days ago, Saul Biru, the father of American-born Angela Biru, kidnapped  
her from her home in Saskatchewan with the intent of having her undergo the  
ritual of fibulation. Naima Biru and Amy Gardner flew to Kenya and contacted the  
anti-mutilation organization Maendeleo Ya Wanawake, giving the location of the  
Kikuyu village where Mr. and Mrs. Biru were born and where they suspected the  
girl had been taken. Ms. Gardner was the first to discover the building where  
the mutilation was to take place, where she was held at knifepoint by Mr. Biru.  
He demanded that his daughter be circumcised, and said that in addition Ms.  
Gardner should also undergo the procedure as penalty for her interference. The  
midwife refused until Mr. Biru threatened to kill her as well as Ms. Gardner."  
  
Sam fought down a surge of bile. He couldn't imagine what Josh was feeling,  
didn't dare allow himself to travel down that dark path.  
  
"Ms. Biru, with the help of Maendeleo Ya Wanawake, found the midwife's house and  
demanded that her daughter and Ms. Gardner be set free. Mr. Biru held his knife  
to his daughter's throat, but the women managed to get the weapon away from him.  
As Mr. Biru began to strangle his daughter, claiming that he would rather see  
her dead than left intact, Ms. Biru took the knife from the floor stabbed her  
ex-husband three times in the chest."  
  
"Shit," mumbled Josh. "Oh, shit."  
  
C.J.'s face was drawn as she continued. "The midwife, with the help of local  
interpreters, explained that it was the daughter who was to have been...operated  
on first. But Ms. Gardner insisted that she go before her, hoping that Ms. Biru  
or members of Maendeleo Ya Wanawake would be able to rescue them before the  
little girl could be injured." She looked into the camera as if trying to  
connect with Josh. "Witnesses say that Ms. Gardner's courageous act surely saved  
Angela Biru from a lifetime of agony."  
  
"Local authorities plan to release Ms. Biru on the grounds that she was acting  
in defense of her daughter. Ms. Gardner's condition is listed as critical,  
citing massive blood loss, shock, and incipient infection from the use of crude,  
unsterilized instruments. When her condition is stabilized, she will be flown to  
London for further evaluation." C.J. swallowed, the tension in her voice as  
terrifying as the news itself. "The prayers of the entire nation are with the  
Naima and Angela Biru, Amy Gardner, and their family and friends. More  
information will doubtless be available before the evening news, and we will  
provide up-to-the-minute coverage on MSNBC."  
  
C.J. was replaced by a graphic of the words "Special Report," and an anonymous  
voice saying that regular programming would now resume.  
  
"I need to know more," Josh said softly.  
  
"C.J. will call as soon as she can get away." Sam stepped back and tried to  
evaluate Josh's emotional state, but his own emotions were running too high.  
Poor Amy, and poor Josh, and poor C.J., having to read news like that about  
someone she knew.  
  
C.J.'s call came moments later, and Sam put it on the speaker so Josh could  
participate as well. "He saw the news," Sam said, to preempt any questions C.J.  
might have. "We watched your update. What else do you have?"  
  
"It's pretty sketchy. They'll be reuniting Naima with Angela any minute now."  
  
"What about Amy?" Josh asked, looking at the phone as if C.J. were standing  
right there.  
  
"They can't move her at this point. Last I heard was that it'd be a few days  
before she could be taken anywhere else, and it'll probably be London. She  
hasn't regained consciousness, but the doctors were able to stop the  
hemorrhaging. I've got two medical reporters standing by with Abbey's fax number  
- she'll be able to explain this to you much better than I could. Josh, I'm so  
sorry. I wish I could do something."  
  
"You're doing so much," Josh whispered, so softly that Sam wondered if his words  
could be heard in New York. "Thank you, C.J."  
  
The uncharacteristic calm was shock, Sam realized. "I'm taking Josh home with  
me."  
  
"Good idea," C.J. said. "Tell Nina--"  
  
"Nina's with the Bartlets. Donna's at our house, helping out with Helen."  
Someone surely had contacted Donna by now. Please.  
  
"I'll get off the phone so you can talk to her. Guys, I...I don't know what to  
say. Wait, my cell's going off, too. It's Abbey. I'll have her call you at home,  
later, okay?"  
  
She hung up without waiting for an answer - even after all this time, Abbey  
Bartlet's calls took priority. Sam grabbed Josh's coat.  
  
"You don't have to babysit me," Josh said. "I'm fine."  
  
"Yeah, sure you are. Let's get out of here before the huddled masses come by,  
wanting more information than we're ready to give out." He waited for Josh to  
move, or at least speak. "Donna will be scared to death if you're by yourself.  
Let's go home."  
  
Josh nodded, following Sam wordlessly to his car, not speaking during the drive,  
just staring blankly at the dark purple sky with its silvered confetti of stars.  
When Donna ran out of the house and threw her arms around Josh, holding him  
tightly and telling him she'd seen C.J.'s report but that everything was going  
to be all right, Sam found that Nina's absence was a palpable ache. He left  
Donna and Josh sitting together, holding hands as they sifted through various  
accounts on the television and discussed whether Josh should go to Africa or  
wait until Amy was transferred to London, while he went to check on his  
daughter.  
  
Helen was half-asleep in her crib, her soft, black eyelashes fluttering. Sam  
picked her up gently, careful not to startle her, and held her close to his  
chest as he thought about Angela Biru. How could someone do such a thing to a  
woman? How could a father do such a thing to his child?  
  
With his free hand he dialed the number in Manchester, and it was a relief to  
hear Abbey call Nina to the phone. "Sam, oh, God, Sam, this is just awful...is  
Josh all right? No, wait, that's a stupid question, but you know what I mean,  
right?"  
  
"I know." He took a deep breath, calming himself. "Josh is in the study with  
Donna, checking for updates. He's horrified, of course - we all are - but he's  
in good hands."  
  
"Thank God. Where's my baby?"  
  
"I'm holding her right here." He listened as Nina began to sob quietly. "She's  
safe, Nina. I have her, and I'm not letting go. When are you coming home?"  
  
"Tomorrow morning, first thing. I love you so much, Sam."  
  
"I love you, too."  
  
He returned both telephone and baby to their respective cradles, then spent  
several minutes at the dining room window, looking out at the velvet night and  
listening to Donna's voice soothing Josh, soothing them both.  
  
***   
Manchester   
***  
  
"I know this is the last thing in the world you want to think about right now,"  
Abbey said as she came into the guest bedroom and sat down next to Nina, "but we  
have so little time."  
  
"What's the latest news?" Nina asked. She had been too upset to remain in the  
room while Abbey and Toby debated the former President about the need for  
international women's rights groups to call for the abolition of female genital  
mutilation.  
  
"Nothing, yet, except that Naima and Angela are at the Peace Corps headquarters,  
and they'll let her stay there until Amy can be moved. I'm still waiting on news  
from the medical team, but we have to take the time difference and lack of  
modern conveniences into account."  
  
Nina felt a hot tear work its way down her cheek, and she wiped it away with her  
fingertips. "I wish I could be there. Sam sounded...lost."  
  
"Sam Seaborn may be many things," Abbey said firmly, "but 'lost' isn't one of  
them. You know as well as I do that the faraway look, the hesitant voice, are  
just signs that he's thinking."  
  
"I know, and I know that he and Donna are the best people to be with Josh  
tonight. But I miss him, and Helen." She was still a little in awe of Abbey,  
despite the loving friendship the two women were forging, and she had trouble  
looking into Abbey's eyes. "It's at times like this that I realize that they're  
the most important things in my life."  
  
Abbey nodded. "I have definitely walked a mile in your shoes, Nina. And I know  
you have questions. I'd like for you to ask them."  
  
"I don't want to overstep--"  
  
"Please." Abbey put her hand over her heart and laughed. "There aren't  
boundaries here. Just two women with difficult choices to make."  
  
Nina felt the words spilling out of her as if they came directly from her heart.  
"How could you bear it? All those years of medical school, the study, the  
internship and residency and practice, gone, just like that."  
  
"They weren't gone. Just...set aside. I'd done it before, each time I got  
pregnant. This was just a longer intermission." She took Nina's hand and turned  
it over in hers, running her nails over Nina's calloused fingertips. "Feel  
that?"  
  
"I'm...aware of it. Pressure, I guess."  
  
"Do you remember having tender little fingers that felt everything? Do you  
remember what that was like, before all the hours of practicing, before the  
scales and etudes and sonatas and concertos?"  
  
Blinking rapidly, Nina glanced from her left hand up to Abbey's astute, gentle  
face. "I've been playing since I was nine. Twenty-five years."  
  
"I've been a doctor longer than that. And as much as I missed it, those years  
during the campaign and when I was censured, it never really left me. Just as  
all the work you've done will never leave you."  
  
Tears came again, bitter ones that Nina let fall unchecked. "I spent my  
childhood, my youth, on my music, all so I could have the work I loved, playing  
in a major orchestra. If I leave it now, I can't ever go back. The campaign is  
one year. If Sam wins, that's four more, and if he gets a second term that's  
another four."  
  
"Sam could lose, you know," Abbey commented, which made Nina laugh for just a  
few seconds. "Seriously, though, I do understand what you're saying. But you'll  
be able to stay connected to your world far, far better than I did to mine.  
There are youth orchestras and school music programs that you could save, and  
chamber music in the White House, and ways for your music to be a part of your  
life that I'm not clever enough to think of. But tell me this - even if Sam  
weren't a politician, wouldn't you find that the center of your life is  
different now than it was just a few years ago, when music was your greatest  
love?"  
  
"I love Helen and Sam more than anything!" Nina declared, revealing her emotion  
with the passion she displayed in her voice. "I'd lay down my life for them."  
  
Abbey cupped her cheek, nodding. "I never doubted that about you. Sometimes,  
it's the gentlest people who have the most courage. You're a lot like Sam in  
that way, you know. When I first met him, I liked him. I felt comfortable around  
him. I loved his writing, and the way he could calm everyone just by the power  
of his words. It wasn't until the shooting that I understood that a lion's heart  
beat under the monogrammed shirts and immaculate suits."  
  
She'd never heard a better description of her husband. "Sam spent his day  
calling in favors to everyone he's ever met who might have been able to help  
with Amy. He kept Josh from doing anything rash. And right now, I know he's  
helping Donna take care of Josh, while making sure Helen's safe in her bed."  
  
"Exactly." Abbey brought Nina's head to her shoulder, stroking her hair. "And  
tomorrow he'll help the whole country deal with the outrage. I'd be surprised if  
he wasn't sitting at his laptop right now, sleeves rolled up, straightening his  
glasses as he worked on ensuring that the legislation introduced in 1993,  
banning female genital mutilation, is finally passed into law."  
  
"It's not against the law in America?" Nina asked, outraged.  
  
"Not yet. But it will be, sooner rather than later, because Sam's heart, his  
conscience, his soul, won't allow him to stand idly by while even one more  
person is hurt. He's a great man, Nina. The things he could do, if he were  
elected...all the things this country needs so badly, the things Jed couldn't  
accomplish because we were mired in partisanship and multiple sclerosis, are  
things that are in the palm of your husband's hands."  
  
"And here I'm whining because I won't get to play the viola where I want to,"  
Nina sighed, burying her face in Abbey's shoulder, "when you had to give up  
medicine for so long."  
  
"Listen to me," Abbey said as she rested her cheek in Nina's curly hair. "Never  
disparage your career just because you think it's less 'important' than Sam's,  
or mine, for that matter. You and I both practice healing arts, Nina, and we  
both devoted our lives to them. We are also equally devoted to our families.  
It's a difficult line to walk, I won't kid you, but at some point you're going  
to have to make a decision."  
  
That was why Nina had come, to make the decision. "Give me the bullet points,"  
she whispered, making Abbey laugh.  
  
"It all comes down to this: you want to make the best world for Helen, and  
whatever other children you and Sam may bring into the world. What do you think  
would be the best contribution you could make?"  
  
She knew, and she was proud even though she was afraid, and she sat up straight  
in an unconscious imitation of Abbey's regal posture as she answered.  
  
"Seaborn for America."  
  
***   
Part Five   
  



	5. Chapter Five

***   
Manchester   
December   
***  
  
They hadn't gotten married over Labor Day weekend, after all.  
  
First, C.J. decided that the "Practical Politics" special was something she  
could not abandon. Besides, September was the month the President's book was due  
at the publishing house, leaving Toby in a state of such heightened anxiety that  
he couldn't even stand to be around himself. In October came the horror of Amy's  
situation, when C.J. had been so busy that she'd slept at the studio because it  
saved time. November was just a crummy time to do anything. Why? Because, well,  
it was cold and the leaves were gone and the pictures would suck.  
  
Or so they said to one another, over and over again. Next month it'll be better.  
  
"I'm not getting any younger," Bartlet had hinted over a glass of wine the  
Sunday after Thanksgiving. "And neither are you," he added, glaring at Toby,  
"although, C.J., you're holding up pretty well. But tell me - what the hell's  
the next delay going to be about?"  
  
And there, over the remains of turkey and pumpkin pie, Toby had stammered that  
he didn't have anything pressing to do the following weekend, so if C.J. felt  
like it, perhaps they could get married.  
  
In spite of Toby's singularly unromantic gesture, C.J. returned to the farm the  
next weekend ready to marry him.  
  
They were true to their word in that they didn't tell anyone, even though Donna  
had pretty much divined the situation in that weirdly telepathic way of hers.  
The men, fortunately, were clueless. NBC had released C.J. for a week, provided  
that her "vacation" include an interview with the former President about his  
book.  
  
"In This White House" was a wealth of facts, of course, and contained stories of  
both charm and pathos. Toby had done a wonderful job of reining in Bartlet's  
overexuberant prose without washing it clean of the man's exquisite intelligence  
and charm. The result was a powerful memoir that hit best-seller lists all over  
the world.  
  
And, since Bartlet had written at least six pages about each of the members of  
his senior staff, the Schiller camp cried that it amounted to free publicity for  
the amazingly popular Democratic Presidential hopeful, Sam Seaborn.  
  
"They can stick that up their asses," were the last words C.J. heard from  
Bartlet before Abbey spirited her to the master bedroom for one last makeup  
check.  
  
"Be sure and say that in the interview," C.J. called back to him.  
  
"Would you stop with the book, already?" Abbey groaned. "You're getting this  
weird little line on the left side of your nose."  
  
"I'm 49 years old, Abbey. That's not exactly the only line." Nonetheless, C.J.  
tried to relax her tense facial muscles. She fluffed up her hair, scowling at  
her reflection in the mirror. "This is crazy."  
  
Abbey cocked her head to one side. "What's crazy? That you're marrying Toby, or  
that it took twenty-five years?"  
  
"Can I take the Fifth on that? And what is up with my hair?"  
  
"There is nothing wrong with your hair. It's beautiful. You're beautiful."  
  
"I'm old, Abbey. I'm old and scrawny and the only blushing I'm going to do today  
is out of embarrassment that I'm almost fifty and I'm having, you know, a  
wedding."  
  
"You, Toby, Jed, me, and a justice of the peace isn't much of a wedding. You  
wouldn't even let me order a cake, for crying out loud!"  
  
C.J. shrugged. "Toby likes pie."  
  
"No one has a wedding pie. Even Zoey wouldn't have a wedding pie. I mean, I can  
understand you not wearing white - I certainly wouldn't be able to keep a  
straight face, and you know damn well Jed would make a comment. I understand  
that you can't wear obvious wedding rings. I even get it that you aren't telling  
anyone unless there's a dire emergency, and I'm pretty sure we've hit our quota  
on that for a year or so. But no one has a wedding pie!"  
  
They looked at one another in the mirror and burst out laughing. "Feel good to  
get that out of your system?" C.J. asked, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.  
  
"Yes," Abbey said, her irascible tone muted by the stifled chuckle. "It's just  
that I have fewer and fewer of these to look forward to, and I've always enjoyed  
mothering brides."  
  
Alarmed, C.J. turned around to look directly at Abbey. "Please, by all things  
holy, tell me that you're not going to sit me down for the 'birds and the bees'  
conversation."  
  
Abbey seemed to take a great deal of interest in the ceiling. "Well, if memory  
serves, I certainly won't have to tell you to lie back and think of England."  
  
C.J.'s indignant cry was interrupted by a knock on the door.  
  
"Ladies, are you decent?" Bartlet inquired sweetly.  
  
"Yes, Jed," answered his wife.  
  
"Well, hell, then. I'll go away for a while and wait for better things." He  
opened the door and peered inside. "I heard raucous laughter. Is there booze in  
the room? And if not, how can I get some?"  
  
"Toby's not opening a bottle, then?" Abbey asked as she slipped her arm around  
her husband's waist.  
  
"Hasn't touched a drop. I'm beginning to worry about him." Bartlet inspected  
C.J.'s raw silk suit, a rich cream color that made her skin look luminous. "You  
look lovely, Claudia Jean."  
  
"Thank you - I appreciate that. How's Toby doing?" C.J. asked.  
  
"Last time I saw him, about ten minutes ago, he was marching in concentric  
circles around the study, mumbling something under his breath. He's either  
practicing his vows or trying to perform some sort of incantation."  
  
They heard the old grandfather clock chime the hour. C.J.'s heartbeat quickened  
as she allowed Bartlet the courtly gesture of taking her arm to walk her  
downstairs.  
  
She was marrying Toby Ziegler.  
  
Holy shit.  
  
They were to exchange their vows in the study. In the home of the former  
President and First Lady. With the former President and First Lady standing up  
for them.  
  
Holy shit.  
  
Bartlet patted her arm. She tried to smile but she wasn't sure which muscles to  
use. If anyone took pictures, she'd look like the Artist's Composite Picture of  
the Criminal. A mental image flashed of her photo next to Toby's on the post  
office wall. From there her mind skittered to what her friends would do when  
they found out, which was inevitable. Sure, she'd sworn Gary Tennenberg to  
secrecy about the handmade suit, but he lived with Matt and was friends with  
Donna, who'd made a few offhand remarks...  
  
Holy shit.  
  
Wait, wait, Bartlet was saying something, opening a box and handing her a  
perfect nosegay of pure white rosebuds. "I know you said no, but I couldn't bear  
the thought of you without fresh flowers in your hands. Will you allow me this  
one indulgence?"  
  
She bit her lip, trying to blink back tears, as she took the flowers in her  
hand. She leaned against him for a moment, missing her father so very much,  
wishing her mother could have seen her baby girl on the President's arm.  
  
Abbey opened the door, and C.J. saw Toby standing next to the justice of the  
peace. The one who was going to marry them.  
  
She really needed to stop saying holy shit to herself, she decided.  
  
Toby was, she decided, utterly adorable in his sober black suit. He beamed at  
her, his dimples deepening with every step she took toward him, and he put his  
hand over his heart for a moment before reaching for her.  
  
Bartlet gave her a kiss on the cheek and went to stand beside Toby as Abbey took  
her place next to C.J. Showtime.  
  
Holy...no. Focus.  
  
"Dearly beloved," intoned the justice in her melodious North Carolina accent,  
and C.J. couldn't help but smile when Ainsley winked at her, "we are gathered  
here today, in the sight of God and in the face of this company, to join this  
man and this woman in holy matrimony."  
  
C.J. noticed that Toby was wearing his prayer shawl. How could she have missed  
that? And could he see the delicate gold crucifix she wore at her throat?  
  
God must be getting an eyeful. Oh, wait, you're getting married. Pay attention.  
  
"...let him speak now, or forever hold his peace."  
  
Toby glanced nervously at the door, then even more nervously at his best man,  
who widened his eyes and made a "who, me?" gesture at his own chest.  
  
"Then please join hands and repeat after me."  
  
C.J. almost dropped the bouquet as she handed it to Abbey.  
  
"I, Toby Zachary Ziegler, take you, Claudia Jean Cregg..."  
  
"I, Toby Zachary Ziegler, take you, Claudia Jean Cregg..."  
  
He was taking her as his lawfully wedded wife. From this day forward, to have  
and to hold, for better or worse, richer or poorer...  
  
"...to love, honor, and obey..."  
  
"...to love..." Toby paused and scowled at Ainsley, who shrugged.  
  
"I had to give it a shot. To love, honor, and cherish until death do us part,"  
she amended.  
  
"To love, honor and cherish until death do us part," Toby vowed, looking  
straight into C.J.'s soul.  
  
He had such beautiful eyes. She could get lost in them.  
  
She didn't even hear her own voice reciting the vows - she made sure Ainsley  
didn't try to slip "obey" anywhere into the proceedings, however - and only  
scarcely felt the antique ruby ring Toby slipped onto her finger. But her hands  
trembled when she gave him a plain gold band and didn't stop trembling until she  
heard Ainsley tell Toby to kiss the bride.  
  
He did. Oh. Oh, how he did.  
  
Then there was Abbey embracing her, and Bartlet, and Ainsley throwing her arms  
around her, and nearly lifting her off the floor. "You're sure I can't tell  
anyone?"  
  
"Yes!" Toby and C.J. said together.  
  
"And now," Abbey said, gesturing heavenward, "it's time for champagne  
and...pie."  
  
***  
  
C.J. and Toby didn't emerge from the carriage house for two entire days.  
  
***   
Two days later   
***  
  
The study was festooned with lights, brightening every corner of the room but  
focused mostly on the two leather chairs where C.J. would interview Bartlet  
about his book. While they waited for Andrew to call them in, they sat across  
from one another in the kitchen, submitting to makeup, and Bartlet appraised her  
with a smirk. "You look good, C.J."  
  
"Why, thank you," she replied with exaggerated politeness. So help her, God, if  
he tried anything while they were live on the air...well, the Secret Service be  
damned. She'd had a good two days - and a remarkable two nights - and she'd take  
her chances.  
  
"We have cranberry juice in the fridge." The crew treated the former President's  
words as if they were a non-sequitur, ignoring them. C.J. hoped they also  
ignored her, or at least the flush she felt creeping up into her cheeks.  
  
"I'm fine, thank you, sir," she said, emphasizing the forbidden "sir."  
  
He was well-rested, feisty, and had something to hold over her head. It was  
going to be a long evening.  
  
They took their places in the chairs, and Andrew's assistant gave C.J. a copy of  
"In This White House." She had one of her own, of course, signed with what Donna  
had called, cryptically, "the second-most-beautiful inscription in the history  
of the printed word." But it would be unseemly to flaunt this man's regard, so  
she had asked for a copy that hadn't been so well-read. So wept over.  
  
Andrew signaled the last three seconds before they went live. "Good evening, and  
welcome to this special edition of 'Practical Politics.' I'm actually a guest of  
tonight's guest - this is being broadcast from the home of former President  
Josiah Bartlet."  
  
"Thank you for visiting, C.J.," Bartlet said. "And thank you for agreeing to  
come all the way out here just for this interview."  
  
Oh, great.  
  
"It's my pleasure. I have here a copy of 'In This White House,' your memoirs  
about the years 1998-2006."  
  
"Have you read it?" Bartlet asked, his eyes twinkling.  
  
She nudged his foot. "From cover to cover, Mr. President, and I'm delighted that  
you didn't choose any photos of me from when I had a perm."  
  
"Well, I knew that someday we'd be having this little talk, and I wanted to  
avoid being taken down on national television." He turned more serious. "I have  
always felt a deep and abiding love for this country. It was an honor to serve  
as its leader. But the real reason I wrote this book - with the immensely  
valuable assistance of Toby Ziegler - was that I wanted to write a love letter  
to everyone who served with me in the White House."  
  
They spent a few minutes holding up pictures: Leo holding Ellie's hand as the  
President was sworn in, the Bartlet daughters and their mother in the Mural  
Room, decked out in their inaugural finery. Josh standing on the portico,  
excitedly pointing out something to Donna and Margaret. C.J. pointing to a  
reporter from the podium. Sam in his office - so young, God, had he really been  
that young? - with Toby standing at his shoulder, gesturing at whatever Sam had  
written.  
  
"And, speaking of Sam Seaborn - are you aware that President Schiller's staff  
has filed a complaint with the F.E.C., claiming that your descriptions of him in  
the book are glossy political ads?"  
  
Over to you, Mr. President.  
  
Bartlet looked at his camera, slightly to the left of the lens. "I'm glad you  
mentioned that, C.J. Sam Seaborn, from his first day in Nashua to the day he  
almost had to glue his resignation to Leo's desk because we didn't want to  
accept it, was a valued member of the team. The power of his prose was only the  
tip of the iceberg, just the merest hint of the idealism, wisdom, and quiet  
courage that we would all come to know and admire. There wasn't anyone, from  
heads of state to someone who accidentally bumped into Sam during a White House  
tour, who didn't understand within ten seconds that they were in the presence of  
greatness."  
  
He paused, leaning forward in the chair with his hands clasped together. "I make  
no apologies for how I feel about him. He is a trusted advisor, a gracious  
friend, and one of the great minds of his generation. What it boils down to is  
this: I respect and love Senator Samuel Seaborn of California, and anyone who  
has a problem with it can kiss my ass."  
  
Commercial.  
  
***  
  
End "The Surest Wisdom"  
Thanks to Jo, Ria, and Sacha for their wisdom.  
Feedback would be welcome at Marguerite@operamail.com .  
Back to West Wing .  
  



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